


how the story goes

by Chex (provetheworst)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Chex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier has never been in love. He understands the concept - a sort of loyalty but without the purity of purpose that he associates with that term. Love creates more weaknesses to exploit. Dedication to a mission or cause does not.</p>
<p>(Prompt: Past Steve/Bucky, Post TWS the Asset falls in love with Steve all over again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the story goes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roguewrld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguewrld/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 Steve/Bucky Spring Fling for roguewrld! ... Obviously, I guess.
> 
> General post-CATWS warnings apply, like non-detailed references to past torture and other Winter Soldier-related baggage. Nothing's particularly graphic.
> 
> also I just remembered to add the prompt to the summary so there's that!

The Winter Soldier has never been in love. He understands the concept - a sort of loyalty but without the purity of purpose that he associates with that term. Love creates more weaknesses to exploit. Dedication to a mission or cause does not.

 

Before he was the Winter Soldier, he was in love. He knows this for a fact. Then he was less capable, in several categories, than he is now.

 

This is the first time in a long time he’s known this. A long time ago, he was someone else. The person he was would have died by now, probably, given an average lifespan and without the benefit of cryo-stasis. Whether this is a good thing or not is undecided.

 

-

 

While seeking shelter, the Winter Soldier finds two safehouses occupied by Hydra operatives. He asks them, in Russian, if they are operating as programmed. Neither knows what he means. This implies that neither of them has been programmed at all, that they are part of Hydra willingly.

 

He kills them both. One of them manages to ask him why before dying and he has no answer yet.

 

The third safehouse he finds is unoccupied. His hair and clothes are almost fully dry.

 

The Winter Soldier disrobes, keeping a knife in one hand as he showers. When he is clean, he pulls his hair back, tying it in place with a length of cotton bandage pulled from the first aid kit and rolled thin then tied loosely in place.

 

He eats one of the MREs in the cupboard, pulls on clothes left in the drawer that mostly fit - the pants are too big, but that’s what they make belts for. The sound he makes sounds a lot like a laugh.

 

This is what he knows about his current situation:

  * He is in Washington DC on a mission.

  * That mission is/was to kill Captain America.

  * He has failed this mission, but:

  * The mission is not what he was told.

  * Captain America knows who he is and has access to information the Winter Soldier has been denied.

  * He does not remember knowing Captain America, or when it was they met.




 

This, combined with the fact that Hydra have removed memories from him repeatedly, causes the Winter Soldier to doubt they have his best interests at heart. Not that his interests should be prioritized over the safety of the world at large, nor that his interests should come before even those of people he pledges loyalty to - but he does not think Hydra deserve his loyalty anymore.

 

He’s not sure how they earned it in the first place. That’s one strike.

 

Strike two: the lack of regard for his pain and discomfort while being prepared for missions and storage afterwards. Of course they have to wipe his memory; he’s been given a lot of valuable intel over the years, and should he fail they wouldn’t want what he could know getting out. They could stand to be a little nicer about it, though.

 

Three strikes and you’re out, he thinks to himself, but can’t think of a third strike, nor a reason why baseball would be relevant. He knows the rules of the sport well enough, half-remembers playing it in a back alley at some point.

 

He can’t imagine what sort of mission would have him playing baseball with minors, but the memory’s there nonetheless, fragmentary as it is. Maybe the last wipe was inadequate. That explains it, and explains his target recognizing him, too. Explains the recognition he felt for the target.

 

They weren’t enemies, last time. He knows that much.

 

-

 

There is a first aid kit, fully stocked with a variety of painkillers. None are expired yet, since this safehouse is used and maintained regularly. The Winter Soldier reads each and every label carefully, deciding between hydrocodone and acetaminophen and naproxen sodium.

 

He settles on the last and a piece of toast. Both get washed down with a tall glass of water. At some point he learned enough about the different kinds of painkillers in the current era to take care of himself should a suitable technician not be present. Theoretically, he could go find a technician and turn himself in. That’s what he’s supposed to do after a mission. He doesn’t feel like it.

 

The year is 2014. He pulls on a jacket and a pair of gloves and goes outside, and tries to take stock of what he knows about the current era. He knows the names of most major world leaders, from the ‘40s through the ‘90s. Things get hazy in the mid-90s, after Cold War tensions eased. Ask him about Khrushchev or Gorbachev or Castro and he can write a damn essay; try to talk about the Clintons and he’s got no fucking clue except that one or the other of them was president for a while.

 

Makes sense, with how often they froze him. He scowls so intensely at a newspaper box that a stranger on the street says, “Need a quarter, buddy?”

 

He can feel all the muscles of his face unscrew themselves, frustration easing away into unabashed confusion. “What?”

 

“For the paper. You looked pretty mad at that machine. Figured you’re a quarter short or something.”

 

“Oh,” the Winter Soldier says. “No. Wait, it’s seventy five cents for a paper? Fuck.”

 

“Yeah. Here.” The stranger fishes into their pocket. The Winter Soldier takes a step back, eyes locked on that hand, but it emerges with some coins and nothing else and he takes them and gets a newspaper.

 

“Thank you,” he remembers to say.

 

He sits down and reads the newspaper. He knows about Putin, at least. Putin they gave him, at some point. Guy sounds like an asshole.

 

When he returns to the safehouse, after checking the block for threats, he watches the news again, this time trying to analyze it and gain more information about the past two decades worth of history. It feels like he’s wasting time.

 

He should find Captain America.

 

Captain America knew him. He knew Captain America. He knows that much. They used to be - he doesn’t know. They knew each other. He should find out how.

 

The Winter Soldier knows he has a name. He could recite it. He does not want to.

 

There are stories the Winter Soldier constructs for himself, about the time before he was the Winter Soldier, with the information available - that he knew the Captain, that the Captain did not want to fight him, that he felt recognition on seeing the Captain’s face and hearing his voice. That his recognition went beyond the sort that could be explained by recognizing a face seen in a mission briefing.

 

He tells himself a story about enemy soldiers who came to an understanding.  This story is not true or accurate. There’s another hollow in his knowledge of the past.

 

The stories he tells himself will not help anyone. They won’t aid in maintaining a cover. They won’t gain the trust of targets or missions assists. All that his stories have going for them is that Hydra wouldn’t like them, which the Winter Soldier thinks is pretty funny. Anything to spite Hydra, even if they’ve got no way of knowing he’s doing it.

 

(One of his stories goes like this: _he is a sworn and solemn patriot. He was born on the dawn of the Russian revolution. When the time came, he went to fight for his country willingly; the long winters hardened him and he was strong even before the metal arm._

_On - Christmas, maybe, he likes Christmas. A Christmas truce, because why not. On Christmas, he met an American soldier and they played cards and had a drink and played soccer with other soldiers and then snuck off and - this is not a story he wants to finish. Part of him wants to rewrite it. He and the Captain sneak off and he tries to kill the Captain. No._

_He tries to kill the -_

_He tries to kiss the Captain. It’s Christmas. It’s so goddamn cold and Steve’s shivering again._

_No. That’s not how the story goes. He doesn’t know how his own story goes. The end._ )

 

There’s no use in telling stories. He takes another tablet of naproxen sodium. His head still hurts, so he lies down and allows himself to rest for fifteen minutes and then he comes up with a plan.

 

His new plan is this: he will go to the museum. There is a museum exhibit about the Captain, who is also lost in time, who is also a military experiment, who is also - there’s more, he knows. He doesn’t know what else there is that they have in common, just that it’s there, buried someplace he might not ever remember.

 

-

 

He goes to the museum.

 

He sees himself and the name that Captain America called him.

 

In his pocket, he turns the bottle of naproxen sodium over and over but does not take it out even though his head hurts. Instead, he finds the bathroom and washes his face and his hands and then he goes to the gift shop and buys a book about himself.

 

None of it seems quite right. This should bring up memories. It does not. Someone else is telling stories about him. His stories didn’t help; theirs don’t, either. He grew up with Captain America. He is a patriot to a different country.

 

At least he was right not trusting Hydra. Fuckers. He rolls his eyes at his own stupidity there. Pierce was always talking shit. The Russians talked slightly less shit, he’s pretty sure, though even those memories are damn rusty.

 

With as much information as he’s got shoved in his head, it’d sure be nice if any of it was useful.

 

He’s figured out that telling himself stories won’t work, and that the stories this biographer’s telling don’t work.

 

There’s maybe one other person he can think of to see about getting his old memories back from. Probably it won’t work going to him, either, but.

 

Captain America was his mission, after all. Hydra just fucked up on what that mission should’ve been.

 

Scratch that: it shouldn’t be a goddamn mission. He’s not doing missions anymore. Hydra don’t own him. Fuck those guys.

 

The Winter Soldier approves of his own idea not to go back to Hydra. He’ll use their shit, though. The safehouse is convenient and defensible, if need be. One thing Hydra did right was keeping him alive. They called him an asset - and damn straight he was an asset. He’d be a fucking credit to any organization that’d have him.

 

He could get a job down at the docks and he’d be an asset for unloading cargo. He’d be the best cashier McDonald’s ever knew. Whatever. He could do anything.

 

He needs to find Captain America. He’s known that for a while now. Everything he’s doing and thinking now is just putting that off, avoiding that key action.

 

First, though, he should shower and eat lunch. Maybe finish reading the morning paper. Sitting at the table in the safehouse, eating a sandwich and reading the paper, feels comfortably familiar. The feeling lines up with mission memories scattered over the years, as well as something deeper and more distant.

 

Before he goes, he does the dishes, standing at the sink and washing his plate and glass as if it fucking matters, which it doesn’t.

 

He has no goddamn clue where Captain America is. First place he tries is - technically a few blocks away from Captain America’s apartment, and he really needs to try and think of the guy as anything besides his title. Steve Rogers; Captain America. Same guy. Just like how he’s an asset and the Winter Soldier and, apparently, Bucky Barnes. Different names work for different situations.

 

Staring down the scope of his sniper rifle, trying to see if there’s anything worth seeing at the apartment, the Winter Soldier starts to wonder if he’s looking for Steve or for Captain America. There’s a difference, he knows. Just because they’re two names for the same person doesn’t mean they both mean who he’s looking for.

 

The rifle goes away quick, and he runs a hand through his hair. Maybe he should buy some fucking binoculars. It’d make him look a little less murderous. Lower his profile as a target. Stupid of him not to bring some.

 

Just because this is some weird personal journey of discovery instead of a mission doesn’t mean he can get sloppy.

 

Talking to Steve-or-Captain-America might not even help. There might not be anything to help with. Maybe there’s no helping him.

 

Either the Winter Soldier or Bucky Barnes is looking for Captain America or Steve Rogers; what he wants might depend on who he wants to be.

 

Just because he doesn’t work for Hydra doesn’t mean he’s not the person they made him into.

 

-

 

Here is a thing Bucky used to do, before he was the Winter Soldier: he worked for the New York Dock Company, and when he told people this, they figured that meant he worked at the actual docks unloading ships, because he was Brooklyn and what else is a poor kid from Brooklyn gonna do with his life?

 

He did not work at the docks. He went to school, learned his math well enough to impress all his teachers, and worked as a goddamn paper pusher for the New York fuckin’ Dock Company. Sometimes if a fella was out sick and they didn’t feel like bringing in some idle bastard off the street he’d help move boxes around for a bit, but mostly all he moved was numbers.

 

Not a single person outside of work ever guessed what it was he did, and he did not tell a single soul. Steve was mad at him for nearly a week when he found out, maybe a month after Bucky got the job, and Bucky thought it was hilarious the whole time. At the end he - doesn’t remember. Made it up to Steve somehow. Did something funny and Steve stopped being mad. He wishes he knew what happened.

 

There’s dissonance with how small Steve is in that memory versus how not-small Captain America is, but he’s read the history books, been to the museum. He knows what they did to turn Steve into Captain America.

 

Same as was done to make Bucky Barnes into the Winter Soldier, or close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades, anyway. He can’t remember when Steve became more than he was, and he can’t remember much of what was done to him, either. It seems fair. He doesn’t want to remember that.

 

-

 

Trying to find Captain America means leaving the snubby concrete buildings of DC, with all its pillars and plazas, and heading out west for a while because the rumors he’s able to follow say that Captain America is out that way trying to find him.

 

If Steve had come back to DC, he could’ve found the Winter Soldier sitting in the back corner of a coffee shop nursing black coffee for the three days it took him to work past instinct and training and leave on this personal journey.

 

He’s free. He has no mission; he will not go back to Hydra. He’s working out what that means. No one else can tell him what to do, which is at once a comfort and terrifying in ways he doesn’t want to think about.

 

Used to be, he could figure things out for himself and act on his decisions pretty quickly. While he wasn’t quite as stupid and reckless as Steve - he can’t remember specific instances of this, just a general notion - he could at least get things done instead of stewing in his own thoughts for days on end.

 

It’s frustration over that which gets him moving. He clears the safehouse of all the supplies he can think to take, food and first aid, and steals himself a car. It’s not the first car he’s stolen. Probably won’t be the last.

 

He has cash enough for fuel and he knows how to drive. Implanted memory guides him from Hydra base to Hydra base. Most of them are either abandoned or, better yet, show signs of having been - more forcibly abandoned. Cleared out by outside forces. Even if it’s not Captain America driving the snakes from their lairs, it’s somebody, and that makes the Winter Soldier feel something.

 

Maybe he feels good.

 

Along the way, he stops at truck stop diners by the side of the highway. There are a string of indeterminate servers, near-identical plates of eggs and bacon or biscuits and gravy. The coffee’s always black and almost always garbage - a few times it’s worse than, and once it’s actually sort of good.

 

He’ll spread maps out on the table and follow the routes he wants to take with borrowed black pens. Using a GPS would be easier, but the maps make him feel more comfortable. No one can hack a map. Sure, it could get stolen or damaged, but if someone steals a damn map out from under him he probably deserves it. Same couldn’t be said of GPS directions.

 

He’s halfway through Colorado when he wonders suddenly if there isn’t a way to contact Captain America, instead of trying to track him down.

 

One smartphone bought with a fake ID and Hydra’s money later and the Winter Soldier makes a call. He doesn’t have a number for Captain America, nor for the Widow or Sam Wilson, but he does have Pepper Potts’ number.

 

Where he got it, he has no idea. The information was there when he tried to think through who he might be able to contact.

 

The woman who answers - Pepper - sounds longsuffering. “What’s the emergency this time?”

 

The Winter Soldier almost laughs. Some aspect of her voice feels - not familiar, but there’s a feeling there he might have had once. Careworn exasperation. Something like that. “Do you know where Captain America is?”

 

“What?” she asks, voice sharp and defensive. “Who is this?”

 

“Just an old war buddy,” the Winter Soldier says. He looks down at the steering wheel. He is parked on the side of the road in the mountains a few hours west of Boulder, Colorado. The jeans he bought a week ago have holes in the knees already, and not by any fault of his own. They were sold to him that way. The style amused him. “I heard he was looking for me. Thought I’d save him the trouble.”

 

“So you called me?” she says, first; then - “You’re alive? What’s your name?”

 

“I’d hope I’m alive. The name’s James Buchanan Barnes, ma’am.” He stares up at the ceiling of his stolen car. That’s the first time he’s said that name out loud.

 

“Why me.” It doesn’t sound like a question, so the Winter Soldier lets it lie. “All right. Tony said if I heard anything that I should let him know, but I’m going to - I’ll forward your call.”

 

“Can you just. Give me his number -”

 

The phone is already ringing. He’s not ready. He is not at all ready. His right hand trembles; the plates of his left adjust and readjust.

 

“Hello?”

 

The Winter Soldier is talking to Captain America on the telephone, or would be, if he could think of something to say.

 

“Who is this?”

 

Here’s the first thing the Winter Soldier says to Captain America after dragging him from the river: “Uh, I don’t know. Who is this?”

 

“I think you’ve got a wrong number,” Steve’s saying; there’s laughter in the background, and a woman asking seriously?

 

“No,” he says, before Steve can hang up on him. “Miss Potts didn’t give me your number. She just forwarded the call. Don’t hang up.”

 

There is a long pause, then, “Bucky?”

 

“Maybe,” he says. He might as well be. He is a different person from when that was his name, but he won’t stop Steve from using it. Bucky is better than the asset. A step sideways from the Winter Soldier, which is at least a title for him alone. “Yes.”

 

The voice in the background sounds a little frantic, but the Winter Soldier can’t make out their words clearly. Captain America sounds - scared, maybe. Hopeful. “Where are you?”

 

“Colorado.”

 

“Colorado,” Steve echoes, skeptical. “Why are you in Colorado?”

 

“I was looking for you.”

 

“You were looking for me.”

 

“Yes.” The Winter Soldier steps out of the car and paces up and down the road. There are no other cars. “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m - yeah, I’m fine, Buck,” Steve says. Captain America doesn’t sound too different from how Steve ever did. They’re the same person. It’s fine, thinking of him that way. No one’s going to get mad at the Winter Soldier’s internal thought processes. His thoughts won’t be taken away from him again, not while he’s alive. “I’m fine. Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

 

“I have a car,” he says. That’s not an answer. He hesitates, then adds, “I’m not going to give you a status report beyond that. I don’t have to.”

 

“No,” Steve agrees. His voice sounds thick with sadness. That isn’t ideal.  “You don’t have to.”

 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t know Steve. Bucky did. Still: the Winter Soldier doesn’t want to make him unhappy. He has no real vested interest in making anyone unhappy, besides Hydra, and those guys deserve it. Causing trouble for them actually sounds fun. But making someone who hasn’t done him any wrong sad - he dislikes that.

 

Sometimes being a person with free will is difficult. It didn’t used to matter who he upset. He had things to do, and it wasn’t his fault what happened to anyone else in the process. Now he’s got the time and volition to care about things again and he sort of wishes he didn’t.

 

Not that he’d go back to Hydra. Better a little self-imposed inconvenience than that.

 

When his head hurts, he can take painkillers. Later he will have to perform routine maintenance on his left arm. He can take painkillers then, too. Not the hydrocodone - he needs to be alert - but something, at least.

 

Hydra never let him take painkillers when they worked on his arm, not even when their technicians were doing the work and he just had to lie there and tolerate it. Pierce told him once - or twice, or three times, or any number of times that were taken from him - that it was practice for later. So he could fix his own arm in the field without supplies, if necessary.

 

Practice. Right.

 

He’s pretty sure, now that he’s got the benefit of hindsight, that they were feeding him a line, because of course they fucking were. Probably they were just too cheap to bother, or it was some kind of test of his pain thresholds. That he even got an excuse from Pierce is sort of incredible.

 

Of all his handlers, he thinks maybe Pierce was the least awful. Could have been worse, anyway. There was worse, at one point. He doesn’t remember specifics, just that - Pierce was less-bad.

 

“Bucky?” Steve’s saying. “Are you still there?”

 

“Yes.” He thinks for a moment - doesn’t allow himself to go too far up his own ass in thought this time, because he’s in a damn conversation and he never used to get distracted like this, he doesn’t think. Not when he was Bucky, and not when he was a weapon. He’ll figure it out. “Where are you?”

 

Steve must cover the receiver on his phone, because the next thing he says is muffled, a I’m going to tell him where we are, okay? and then there’s more mostly-inaudible conversation. Eventually, Steve says, clear as day, “Meet me down where that old comic stand used to be. Where we went as kids.”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

More mumbling on the other end of the line, then, whispered, “You know how to trace a call?”

 

“No.” He says, “You ever seen the Grand Canyon?”

 

“No.”

 

“Me either.”

 

-

 

The Grand Canyon is vaster than he expected, somehow, even though it’s right there in the name. “Pretty fuckin’ grand, huh?”

 

“Sure is,” Steve says.

 

“I ever see this place before?” Something must have made him think of it, and he doesn’t know what.

 

“You said you wanted to, but you didn’t have a chance before - well, since you never got to go home.”

 

“You didn’t, either.”

 

Steve puts his hands in his pockets and stares out over the rim of the canyon, a sad smile pulling at one side of his mouth. Part of the Winter Soldier hoped that, in person and without the two of them fighting, Steve would stop being so sad. Instead, seeing him in person makes that ever-present sadness clearer than before.

 

The Winter Soldier might also be sad, but he has anger, too, and frustration. There is a restlessness driving him that Steve does not seem to have.

 

“I shoulda let you find me,” he says eventually. “Instead of just calling you up out of nowhere. Right?”

 

“No, no, calling was good.”

 

“You would have accomplished something if you’d found me,” he says. “Like you actually did something. But I needed to do something, too.”

 

“What?”

 

The Winter Soldier’s mouth thins. He shrugs, then tries on a smile. “I guess it’s just gotta seem anticlimactic for you, right? You spend all that time searching for me, and then, poof, here I am. Neither of us should be here, but here we are. Ah, hell. I just mean - you wanted to save me, right?”

 

“Of course -”

 

“Sorry,” he says, not letting Steve finish after that. He doesn’t want apologies. “You did.”

 

“If I’d known,” Steve starts.

 

The Winter Soldier doesn’t mean to be rude, but he doubts what Steve’s about to say is going to be any good. He doesn’t want to hear it. If Steve had known, maybe neither of them would be here now. He wants to be here. This is a place he’s never been before. Instead of letting Steve finish, he tries something he has not done in a long time.

 

He gives Steve a hug.

 

Bucky must’ve done it plenty, but he hasn’t done this since his name was taken from him way back when, and he can’t remember having done it back then anyway. This is, technically, the first time he’s hugged anyone.

 

Steve freezes, going stiff and tense, then after a few seconds his arms wrap tight around the Winter Soldier. He shoves his face against the Winter Soldier’s neck and breathes in deep. Steve’s shaking a little.

 

The Winter Soldier tries patting Steve’s back. He’s seen people do that. Maybe he did it back when he was someone else. A sound: the Winter Soldier is laughing. Hydra used him as a killing machine, and assigned him a mission to kill Captain America, and here he is giving what is technically his first hug.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, because he doesn’t want to try and explain to Steve what’s so funny. He’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t appreciate it.

 

-

 

They try going to New York after that. Steve’s friends are there. The Winter Soldier allows them to call him Bucky. It feels strange to think of himself that way, but it’s easier to have a name than a title, even if the name doesn’t feel like it should belong to him. He doesn’t have a different name to give them. James feels off; Barnes sounds too formal, somehow.

 

The first thing Tony says in his presence is addressed to Steve, and it is this: “You don’t actually trust him, do you?”

 

Steve crosses his arms. “Tony, don’t start.”

 

Bucky says, “You know I’m right here, right?” which isn’t something he’d have said two months ago, if someone were talking about him like he wasn’t there. He’d have kept his damn mouth shut.

 

“Sure do, Robocop,” Tony Stark says. He’s shorter in person.

 

“Robocop was a good guy,” Bucky says. One of the many, many waitresses he encountered on his cross-country road trip had called him that on seeing his arm accidentally. Since then he’s been more careful with gloves and long sleeves. He’d watched Robocop that very night, though. It was all right.

 

“How have you seen Robocop?”

 

“What else was I going to do with my time?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t offer an explanation even though he has one. He doesn’t think Tony deserves it. “I wanted to see a movie about my little brother.”

 

“Cap, he’s an impostor,” Tony says. “The real Bucky Barnes never had a -”

 

“Yeah, I get it, Robocop isn’t actually my little brother,” Bucky says. He wiggles the fingers on his left hand, then shrugs, looking down at the floor for a moment. Fuck this, he thinks, and lifts his chin defiantly, staring Tony Stark right in the eye. “Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?”

 

“Well, yes, I am, actually -”

 

“There’s got to be a better way to prove I’m me than missing my jokes,” Bucky says.

 

“Banner’s the one who does people science. I’m more of a robotics kind of guy. Engineering. You might have heard of some of my inventions -”

 

Bucky remembers something. He remembers two things, actually, relating to Stark. One of them - he’s not going to think about or mention now. The other, though. “I ran a mission in, what, 2000 or so, another political assassination. We used some of your stuff. I gotta say, it was way nicer than what we had back in the war.”

 

“The war, he says.” Tony throws his hands up. “You old guys are all the same.”

 

“I like this one,” Bucky says to Steve after a moment. “He’s okay.”

 

“I’ve had worse friends.”

 

Bucky holds up his hands. “Hey, low blow.”

 

“Not you,” Steve says. “Never mind.”

 

-

 

Having his blood drawn is, compared to what Hydra did, not that bad. Bucky clenches his fists around the edge of the table he’s sitting on and stares dead ahead and it is over after a few seconds.

 

“Wow,” Dr. Banner says. “I don’t think that table’s going to make it through.”

 

Bucky cracked it, apparently, without even noticing. That’s not great. He presses his fingertips together and shrugs. “Sorry. You want me to buy you a new one?”

 

“No, Tony can handle it.”

 

“I knew I liked him,” Bucky says. Being around people is - nice. It’s easier to figure out how to act around them. Everyone here knows who he is, and he doesn’t have to hide his arm. Tony is still the most antagonistic toward him, which is pretty funny, as far as Bucky’s concerned.

 

Steve is - less easy. He tries very hard to act like he’s not expecting anything from Bucky, only there’s this endless, sorrowful well of hope that Steve apparently draws from, and Bucky’s pretty sure he’s never going to be the same person he used to be.

 

“You’re the Hulk,” Bucky says.

 

Dr. Banner shrugs. “Sometimes.”

 

“How do you do it?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Be two people,” Bucky says.

 

“Okay, I’m not sure what you know about the Hulk, and I’m not sure what you mean.”

 

“Never mind,” Bucky says. He hops off the table, running his fingers over where he cracked its surface. The only feedback his hand gives him is that it’s a solid surface, with some give if he presses too hard at the cracks. “It’s just - before you were the Hulk. You were just Dr. Banner.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And now you’re both. And even if you weren’t - if you got rid of the Hulk, you still wouldn’t be the same, because you would’ve had that inside you for so long.”

 

“I’m really not that kind of doctor,” Dr. Banner says. “I’m not good at the therapist thing.”

 

Bucky cocks his head to the side.

 

Dr. Banner sighs. “Okay, fine, come on. I need coffee for this. We’re going to steal some of Tony’s coffee, then I can deal with this.”

 

-

 

Bucky gives himself a week and a half to settle into life at the Tower and avoid Steve as much as possible before going to spend time with him again.

 

“Hey, you,” is the first thing he says when he finds Steve hitting a punching bag in the gym. “Hit something that’ll hit back.”

 

“Buck -”

 

“Sparring’s a thing people do these days,” Bucky says. “And I know it was back when we were friends the first time, too.”

 

“The first time.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I hardly remember you.”

 

“You’ll remember.” Steve shakes his head, then swipes a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. He’s dripping sweat and Bucky doesn’t ask how long he’s been down here. “You remembered me earlier. It’ll come back.”

 

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “Might not. Who knows?”

 

“There are people,” Steve says. “There’s got to be a way.”

 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “I’m not - even if I remembered, it wouldn’t be the same. I don’t know if I want to.”

 

“You don’t want to remember.”

 

“What I did?” Bucky shakes his head. “No. No. I don’t think so.”

 

“Then …”

 

“But you’re - even though I don’t remember. I still want to …” Bucky cracks his knuckles, then rolls his shoulders back. He nods his head toward the boxing ring.

 

“You want to box,” Steve says.

 

“Yeah, I want to box, but I want to figure you out, too,” Bucky says. Taking the time away, talking to other people instead of obsessing over how he needed to figure himself out by going to Captain America, made a lot of things fall into place.

 

He still doesn’t know quite who he is. He barely remembers Steve, and mostly just in the abstract. That’s fine.

 

“You’re a stubborn guy, right? I can figure that out,” Bucky says. “Pretty fuckin’ obvious, if you ask me. You remember us as friends. I don’t. But I’m not gonna - I want to be your friend.”

 

“You do.” His intonation’s flat, but Bucky’s pretty sure it’s a question.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says. He climbs into the boxing ring, then holds a hand out to help Steve even though Steve doesn’t need the help. Steve uses his hand as leverage anyway, and Bucky grins at him. This might be the first time he’s smiled at Steve since - whenever. He’s not sure on that.

 

Bucky puts his fists up, shifting his weight back onto his right foot. “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

“I don’t want to fight you.”

 

“Me either. That’s why we’re, what, sparring? Yeah, that’s it. Don’t call it a fight.” Bucky gestures toward himself. “C’mon, Steve. What are you, chicken?”

 

“You know that’s not it. You’re the one who taught me to fight the first time, since I couldn’t seem to stop picking fights all the time.”

 

“So come on.” Bucky bounces on the balls of his feet, heels off the ground. He doesn’t remember teaching Steve at all. “I wanna see what you can do. You gonna show me your moves or what, Rogers?”

 

“Us fighting didn’t go so well last time.”

 

“I was a little busy being brainwashed,” Bucky says. What he doesn’t say is that he wants to prove to himself that he can just practice, without it having to mean anything and without him trying to kill anyone. He wasn’t even able to go through with it last time, when he was convinced he should. He’s pretty sure he won’t hurt Steve too bad this time, either. Pretty sure. He could do with more certainty. “This is just me. Quit dragging your heels and come at me. When the hell’s the last time you backed down from a fight?”

 

“I’m going to go ahead and say it was when I was fighting you.”

 

“That wasn’t backing down, that was - y’know, not wanting to kill your old best friend.” Bucky shakes his head. “This is ridiculous. Don’t make me hit you first.”

 

“At least you’re as stubborn as always,” Steve says, and finally takes a step forward. They circle each other for a few seconds before Steve goes on the offensive.

 

-

 

Here’s something no iteration of Bucky has ever known: time-traveling alien conquerors have no concept of timing. Three AM on a Sunday and the Avengers get called to action, which is goddamn insane, he’s pretty sure.

 

“This is insane,” he tells Steve.

 

Steve’s still rubbing at his eyes as Natasha tries to give everyone a rundown of what’s happening.

 

Of course he goes along. No one tells him not to.

 

It’s also sort of fun. He feels pretty sure, this time, that he’s actually acting in the world’s best interests. The people he’s working alongside seem just as convinced. The fact that it’s a defensive mission, rather than some offensive first strike, sort of cements things in his mind.

 

He could’ve sat it out, probably. No one would’ve minded. Going into a mission without a lengthy speech from fucking Pierce or whoever trying to sway him over’s a nice feeling. No one briefed him, he didn’t have his memory wiped, and nobody gave him a time limit before getting frozen again.

 

All he does it go out, fight some invading aliens in the streets of Manhattan, watch as Iron Man kills the leader - who keeps ranting about how he’s from the future and this is destiny and how could this happen - and make sure Steve doesn’t get himself killed.

 

Steve watches his back, too, and there’s a bunch of other people to keep track of, but it feels good. By the end of the fight, it’s five thirty AM on a Sunday and the streets are still mostly empty except for emergency vehicles. They kept civilian casualties to a minimum.

 

Afterwards, he slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders and says, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 

“I could’ve done with a few more hours of sleep,” Steve says.

 

“You’ll be fine,” Bucky declares. “Look. Dunkin Donuts. You had a chance to go to one of these yet? They’re fucking garbage.”

 

“There’s a Starbucks right over -”

 

“Nope, no,” Bucky says, stepping around behind Steve. He gets his hands on Steve’s shoulders and pushes, trying to guide him forward.

 

Steve’s still in his uniform, and Bucky hasn’t got a proper uniform, but the tactical gear and metal arm probably count for something. They walk in and a single scared staff member pokes their head out of a door leading to the back, then says, “Is it over?”

 

“It’s over,” Steve says.

 

“It’s over and Cap here needs coffee.”

 

“I don’t need coffee -”

 

“You do, too,” Bucky says.

 

Steve shrugs.

 

They get coffee. It’s free. Bucky leaves a twenty in the tip jar, despite both employees on duty repeatedly trying to give it back.

 

“I could get used to saving the world,” Bucky says. He has a lot to make up for. He’s not sure the public’ll even want him saving them, not after what he’s done. Maybe he won’t get a chance. Getting thrown in jail for a thousand years for all the people he’s killed seems a lot more likely than getting lauded as a hero, but right now he wants to sit back, enjoy some godawful coffee and bug Steve. It feels appropriate, in the moment.

 

Steve looks tired and vaguely annoyed at the state of the world. Bucky nudges Steve’s foot with his own under the table.

 

“Hey.”

 

Steve’s smile is as tired as the rest of him. “What?”

 

Bucky leaves his foot pressed up against Steve’s. “Nothing. Morning. Since I didn’t say it earlier.”

 

Steve shakes his head and laughs. “Good morning.”

 

Bucky leans back in his chair and looks out the window at the rubble and wreckage of the street. Fixing that is going to take time and money. Less than it would have if they hadn’t come along.

 

“We should be helping with the cleanup.”

 

“I’m going to finish this first.” Bucky lifts his cup pointedly. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and takes a sip. “This is the worst. I think it’s burnt.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re drinking it.” Steve’s own cup sits on the table mostly untouched. Steve has one hand on the table, fingers curled vaguely in the direction of the styrofoam cup but not touching it.

 

For a moment, Bucky wonders if this should feel familiar at all. It doesn’t matter. Right now, he can’t remember a moment like this. If there were any before, they’ll either come back to him later or they won’t.

 

He does something he may or may not have done before, once, and reaches over to put his hand over Steve’s.

 

Steve stares down at their hands. He says, with a smile that reaches his eyes for once, “You’re not the same.”

 

Bucky shrugs and doesn’t look away. “Yeah, well. Who is?”

 

-

 

Here’s something Bucky remembers: He was in love with Steve, back in the day. During the war, and maybe before, too. Things are too hazy to say for sure.

 

He can’t remember ever saying anything about it. He doubts he did anything. Not that he was a coward back then - even now he’s impressed with his own bravery, at least half because it barely feels like his own.

 

Point is, he was in love with Steve at some point, and he doesn’t think he ever said anything about it, and he isn’t now.

 

He isn’t, but he can see where his past self was coming from. Maybe back then he might’ve deserved some success there. Maybe now he doesn’t, or won’t.

 

The point is: Bucky was in love with Steve more than sixty years ago. The Winter Soldier never was. The person he is now isn’t yet, but could be. He gets where he was coming from.

  
  



End file.
